Investigator: Mr. Clay Laroche

Clay Laroche rode the train to Liltsburgh on Tuesday morning. He was on a case. One day prior, Mr. Seymour Thompkins was the victim of a midday pickpocketing near town square, and after a foot chase through the streets and markets of Liltsburgh, the thief escaped with Seymour’s emerald-encrusted engagement ring.

“The constables in this town are a useless lot,” said Seymour. He and Clay met in Seymour’s study. Seymour paced as Clay sat back in a cushioned chair. “Totally useless!”

Clay sipped the cup of coffee provided by Seymour’s blue-eyed maid, a dark blend of imported beans with rich cream. It was far above the coffee service on the train from Cogdon. The surface of Seymour’s coffee rippled as his hand shook with frustration.

“They let the thief waltz away without a trace,” said Seymour. “He got away with my ring! If they only knew how rare and valuable that gemstone is… imbeciles!”

“Did the thief take anything else?” said Clay.

“No,” said Seymour.

“Start from the beginning, so I have a clear picture,” said Clay.

“My jeweler, Michael Godkim, was making an alteration to my emerald ring,” said Seymour. “I visited his shop yesterday at noon to pick it up, and on my walk home I was approached by a man on Tabiner Street. I thought little of him when I first saw him, but when he was close he stumbled toward me and bumped against me. I pushed him away, he hurried off down the street, and I only realized as he was getting away that he had lifted the ring from my jacket pocket. The sneak thief! I gave chase, and called for the help of a nearby constable, but he evaded us and disappeared into the fish market. There were a few constables on his tail, and they managed to surround the exits of the market, searching a few folks for the ring as they exited, but somehow the thief slipped away. I haven’t received an update from the constabulary since yesterday.”

“Describe the thief to me,” said Clay.

“He was young, looked to be in his late teens, or maybe early twenties,” said Seymour. He held his right hand up near his eyeline, the surface of his palm parallel with the floor, to give an indication of the thief’s height. “Average height, pale skin. He was wearing a tattered jacket and a flat cap.”

“Hair color?” said Clay.

“Dark brown, I think… I’m not sure, it was tucked under the cap,” said Seymour.

“Facial hair?” said Clay.

“Maybe a bit of stubble,” said Seymour.

“Eye color?” said Clay.

“I didn’t get a good look at his eyes,” said Seymour.

“What else do you remember about his clothing?” said Clay.

“They were dirty and covered in patches,” said Seymour. “His jacket was dark red. I think his pants and shoes were black or brown.”

“Do you recall any other distinguishing features?” said Clay. “Take a moment. For example, perhaps he had a visible scar, tattoo or birthmark, or a noteworthy gait when walking or running. Maybe his clothing had a notable scent. If he spoke at all, did he have an accent or particular way of speech? Even the smallest detail could be helpful in identifying him.”

“It all happened too quickly,” said Seymour.

Clay gestured to the blue-eyed maid for a refill on his coffee as he spoke. “Tell me about the ring.”

“It was to be an engagement ring for my love, Victoria,” said Seymour. “A sterling silver band with a two carat emerald. Cost me a fortune.” Seymour put his head in his hands.

“Did Victoria know about the ring?” said Clay.

“No,” said Seymour. “We’ve spoken about marriage, but I was going to surprise her with the ring.”

“Did anyone else know about the ring?” said Clay.

“Only Godkim, the jeweler,” said Seymour.

Clay had already done his homework on Michael Godkim. When Clay first received the case details last night from the Detecting Company, he sent for additional information on the jeweler, but failed to uncover any suspicious history. He requested information from fencing informants in Cogdon as well, in case the ring had already been sold, but as of this morning there was no such indication.

“Can you think of anyone that would have targeted you specifically?” said Clay. “Someone that may have wanted to cause you trouble.”

“If I knew, then why the hell would I have hired you?” said Seymour.

Clay took a slow sip of his coffee, savoring the flavor. Maybe your lovely Victoria has a secret flame that doesn’t want you armed with an engagement ring.

After his meeting with Seymour, Clay went to the constabulary station for a meeting with the constables that had pursued the thief. Constables Carbey, Hale and Lobb retold yesterday’s events in such a way that lined up with Seymour’s recount. The constables had little to add in terms of the thief’s physical description. Apparently theft had been on the decline in Liltsburgh over the last few years, and they were under the impression that this was a random occurrence.

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Constable Carbey described the events at the fish market preceding the thief’s escape. “There are three streets that lead to the market: Troutman Street from the south, Dilley Avenue from the east, and Pembroke Street from the north. I saw the thief run into the market from Troutman, but it was busy yesterday, and I lost him in the crowd. I followed him in, Constable Lobb came in from the opposite direction, and we made sure that each exit was being watched by at least one other constable.”

“That’s right,” said Constable Hale. “I stayed at the Troutman exit, and I know that Constables Mitchell and Rigley watched from Dilley and Pembroke. There was nowhere for the thief to go!”

And yet, he went. “The thief couldn't have escaped some other way?” said Clay.

“Not that I can think of,” said Constable Hale.

“What if he put on a disguise while in the market?” said Clay. “Couldn’t he have snuck out undetected?”

“Possibly, if not for the fact that we stopped anyone fitting his description and had them turn out their pockets,” said Constable Hale. “If he had changed his outfit in the market, but he still had the ring on him, then we would have recovered it and caught him.”

Not the most airtight method of pursuit and ensnarement, but at least they tried. Clay imagined how he would have snuck past the watchful eyes of the constabulary if he had been the one holding onto the purloined ring. To catch a thief, think like a thief.

To submerge himself into the correct frame of mind, Clay walked to the fish market, entering from Troutman Street as the thief did the day before. It was a sprawl of tents and booths, dense rows and aisles, ripe with the smell of fish and the chatter of vendors and customers. The market took up several acres worth of the lakeside. Clay considered what the thief must have been thinking as he fled from Liltsburgh law enforcement. He retraced the thief’s steps, absorbing the sounds and smells of the market.

Clay stopped at various stalls, interviewing the fishmongers, food cart cooks, sanitation workers and panhandlers. A handful of people recalled the fleeting sight of constables chasing someone through the market yesterday afternoon. By the process of crossing witness statements with statements from Liltsburgh constables, Clay analyzed the most likely path of the thief’s escape route. Based on the size of the market, and the complicated arrangements of stalls and rows, the sheer number of permutations of the thief’s potential movements was nigh incalculable, and Clay found himself less certain with each passing minute of his investigation.

He was hunting for the dark red jacket that Seymour and the constables had described. The thief must have discarded the jacket if he wanted to get out undetected. He checked every alley and pile of refuse, earning curious glances from onlookers.

“Lose something?”

Nothing but my sense of dignity. Clay shook half a bowl’s worth of fish chowder from a red piece of fabric at the bottom of a trash bin, only to realize that it was an old scarf and not the jacket that he was searching for. If only I’d lost my sense of smell.

Three hours into his trip to the fish market, busy with interviewing locals and rummaging through trash, Clay was on the verge of abandoning this approach. About a year ago, Clay was assigned to a case that required him to dig through trash for discarded bank statements—he didn’t like the process then, nor did he like it now. His last ounce of optimism continued to fade as it seemed increasingly likely that the allegedly discarded jacket was not discarded at all, or it had been removed from the market since yesterday afternoon.

Clay turned down a shady alleyway that halted in a dead end. He almost overlooked the balled up bundle of reddish brown by his feet. Clay crouched down and unfurled the bundle, letting out a short burst of relieved laughter as he realized that he was holding the clothing that he had been seeking: the dark red jacket and the flat cap, tucked away out of sight. They hadn’t been discarded more than a day ago. The thief was here.

Clay turned the hat over in his hands. It was well worn, with frayed edges and two separate patches where holes had been repaired. The wool material was cheap. There were stains around the ears and brow from sweat, and dark reddish smudges from countless adjustments with dirty fingers. Inside the hat, he found short, dark hairs. The faint scent of raw meat clung to the wool fibers.

Clay moved on to the jacket. Like the hat, the jacket had been patched in several places over time, and was marked with dark smudges. One button was missing, and two others had been sewn back on. Clay fished through the pockets and pulled out a two-foot length of cotton twine that smelled of black pepper and garlic, and a half-depleted book of matches from the Wet Jester. He recognized the name—Clay had passed the Wet Jester pub on the way to the constabulary earlier in the day. The caricature of a medieval jester on the pub’s sign enjoying a frothy beverage was clear in his mind.

The closest exit to the site of the discarded clothing was Pembroke Street. Clay wondered if the thief tucked the emerald ring under the sole of his shoe to avoid suspicion, or perhaps he snuck past Constable Rigley when he was distracted.

Based on the thief’s discarded articles of clothing, Clay had a general profile of who he was pursuing. His quarry was a man of little wealth, that much was clear by the quality of his cap and jacket, and the apparent preference to repair his tattered clothing instead of replace. The cap and jacket were at least a few years old, but neither had suffered significant fading from sun damage, so Clay assumed that the thief worked indoors. The low-income, indoor occupation, twine, numerous dark red smudges, and the mingling scents of meat, pepper and garlic conjured the image of a butcher, possibly one employed at the butcher shop across from the Wet Jester, Campbell’s Cuts.

Campbell’s Cuts had two men behind the counter tending to a short line of customers. Clay pretended to peruse the selection of wrapped meats on the shelf, but his true attention was focused on the younger butcher, a man with short brown hair and dark bags under his eyes. The young man rubbed his brow with the heel of his palm, careful not to touch himself with bloodied fingers. He was skilled with a knife.

“Evan, go get the rest of the honey ham from the back,” said the older butcher.

Evan disappeared into the back of the butcher shop for a few minutes. When he returned, Clay noticed a patch on his pant leg which was remarkably similar in material and sewing technique as the patches on the discarded hat and jacket.

Clay purchased a pound of dried, salted beef jerky. He decided to watch over Campbell’s Cuts from afar, inconspicuously skimming through a crime novel while he occupied an outdoor bench with a view of the butcher shop. He chewed the jerky slowly as he turned the pages.

The sun was nearing the horizon, shadows cast long across the street, by the time young Evan left the butcher shop. Clay followed from a distance.